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this art. For every man it was different. For every spirit, it showed a new face.
    Pepin was not content. It was not his nature. But happy—he was that. Yes, he was happy.

CHAPTER 5
    A handful of days after the Saracens came to Paderborn, the king called all the lords and commons of the Franks to the great assembly. There in the field under the mountain’s knees, by the ever-running river, the gathered prelates of the Franks sang the high Mass, a great rite of invocation and adoration.
    When the chanting was still fading away, the plumes of incense scattering in a light wind, Charles told his people what message the embassy had brought. “Spain,” he said, “begs us come to its aid. Rebels have taken Cordoba. If we destroy that rebellion, great lands will be ours, and cities, fortresses, treasure . . .”
    He had them in his hand. Roland, standing behind him with the rest of the Companions, felt the force of the people’s faith in their king. They heard what they chose to hear. Spain—conquest—wealth. And for those who cared for such things, which was a great number, there was another thought, another desire: to restore an infidel country to the light of the Lord Christ.
    Those voices rose louder and ever louder. “In God’s name! God wills it!”
    Charles let them rouse themselves to a fever-pitch. If there were objections, questions, voices of reason, they were all drowned out in that tumult. And that, thought Roland, was exactly as Charles wished it. Charleswanted Spain—wanted empire. If he won it so, then he was content.
    The emir Al-Arabi did not seem unduly dismayed. Nor would he be, since he himself had foretold that this would happen. Al-Arabi, like Charles, wanted what he wanted; nor did he care precisely how he got it.
    When at long last there was something like silence, Charles’ voice rose over it, clear and pitched to carry. “My heart is glad that you approve this, my people. We will bring the true Faith into Spain. We will ride in war over the mountains, and conquer a new land for the Lord.”
    This roar was nigh as long as the first. It ended in a slow sigh like a surge of the sea. As it faded at last, the emir spoke. His Latin was purer than many a priest’s, and there were priests to render it in the dialects of the Franks. Roland heard the overlapping of voices, Al-Arabi’s words rendered in a dozen ways, but all with much the same meaning.
    â€œIn joy,” he said, “and in gratitude for the aid that you offer, I bid you all attend a feast. But first, if you will, in token of friendship, I offer a contest. Let your best warriors vie for the prizes: gold and jewels and the wealth of my people. And for the strongest, for him who conquers all, there is this.”
    He beckoned. A turbaned servant stepped forward. In his hands was a long narrow bundle wrapped in crimson silk. He shook loose the wrapping with a flourish, and laid bare a sword.
    It was a wondrous thing. Its hilt was plain silver, the pommel set with a white stone like the moon. Its blade rippled like water.
    The servant lifted it, holding it as a priest might hold a cross. The sun caught it and it flamed with white fire.
    Every man in that army loosed a long sigh of pure desire. None of them, not one, was proof against the light of that sword. It was beauty bare, perfect and deadly. It made Roland think of ice under the moon, and water in starlight. It was as pure and strong and dangerous as the highest of high magic.
    A shiver ran down his spine. A sword was a thing of power, and a truly fine one would carry strong spells and secrets of the maker’s art. But this was more.
    His glance caught Charles, standing as still as they all stood, transfixed by that wondrous thing. Not even a king could resist the lure of it.
    Not even a king, not even this king, would keep Roland from vying for the sword. Nor was he alone in that desire. All the Companions, the